


Fate is cruel

by The_antivan_reads



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Calling, M/M, On the Run, Warden!Alistair, and there will be some Inquisiton shit toward the end, antiva endeavours, asshole cousland, but zev stops him, potential drunk alistair, pretty much a story about Zevran and Alistair running around thedas making out, the crows - Freeform, there will be more tags added as I go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_antivan_reads/pseuds/The_antivan_reads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cousland is an asshole. Really, he is.<br/>Alistair is forced to run away from Denerim- toward Kirkwall, Zevran gets taken away by the crows... Somehow they find eachother- against countless odds, reunited in the mess that is Thedas... All because Cousland is the biggest asshole on the planet.</p>
<p>The people you once cared for can change... Wether or not it's for the better is what Zevran and Alistair have to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate is cruel

**Author's Note:**

> More tags will be added as I go along, forgive my unorganised posting as well

it'd been almost 72 hours since Alistair genuinely slept.

His heart was aching with loss and fear of the unknown, with the sting of betrayals.

His mind throbbed with the knowledge of dreaded change and responsibility. 

His face sagged and his eyelids stung with severe agony every time he closed them, but the insomnia and almost unbearable screaming of darkspawn setting fires in his skull was impossible to drench and stop focusing on.

He was just a kid. Twenty years old. 

Alistair had never been trusted with anything or anyone in his life, no less the fate of an entire kingdom. And no matter how many times Wynne could give him a lecture, Morrigan would tell him to toughen up or Oghren to just slap his back in his own, unique idea of comfort, -despite the fact they were all throwing him in the deep end, watching him sink and take the fall- Alistair couldn't shake the violent feeling that he needed to vomit up the contents that lined and sloshed around inside of his stomach. 

Maybe he was turning into a darkspawn himself, because his hair had started to fall out due to stress and sleep deprivation, and his muscle mass had quickly collapsed and he felt his toned stomach become a soft, pudgy thing to something hollow and weak just as fast.

He wasn't sure he could survive the next two days. He probably wouldn't survive the final battle anyway.

Alistair wasn't a coward. Especially not a deserter. Or he at least liked to think he wasn't. He'd go up against dwarves who eat their own lover's flesh and blink maybe twice- because you know- you still have to blink- he could stare a darkspawn in the eye and laugh, he'd experienced loss on almost a daily basis since the blight started, and he had only broken down on rare occasions.

Alistair knew he could face the Archdemon. He could do it. Fight for Ferelden, his home.   
But the possibility he'd be sitting on the throne after all of this?

Alistair's stomach dropped and he let out an inaudible sob.

He wanted to get out of Denerim's labyrinthian castle. He needed to get out of this bed, specifically.

It was almost soaked to its core with sweat, and the warrior just couldn't take it anymore. 

He arose, shaking and palming his dishevelled hair furiously, with the sudden urge to punch something as hard as he possibly could. 

He huffed and paced, and eventually Alistair pulled a large hunting coat that was stuffed deep inside the bedside table out and around his shoulders. 

He tentatively creaked his chamber door open. And despite his sudden anger, he couldn't bring himself to be loud. It was maker-knows-what-time and he didn't want everyone else to have trouble sleeping just because he couldn't. 

"A walk in the gardens might be nice..."  
He mumbled. "I'll grab something to soothe my mind as well."

So toward the wine-cellar (which was actually a wine-storage-cupboard) he miserably snuck, bumping into at least two Mabari life-size statuettes as he went. Already feeling less tense than before, but still completely uneasy -what being in the darkness with only an occasional lantern round corners to light his way. 

The entire castle was dead silent, as if he was the only man left alive in Thedas. The thought lifted some weight off his sharp, defensive shoulders. And for a short moment, he smiled.

His frustration returned just as quickly though, as Alistair huffed and slowly padded with his bare feet into the kitchens, humming lowly a Ferelden lullaby he only knew some of the words to.

As soon as he creaked the door open- a pair of golden eyes were peering silently back at him. 

Alistair jumped in fear and squealed in fright... Or he didn't?   
There was a soft, long-fingered hand wrapped around his mouth, muffling the shout. "shhhhh dear friend, it is only I."

"Zevran"  
Alistair breathed, the sound garbled behind the elf's hand, so it sounded more like a noise the warden's Mabari hound would make. The rogue let out a small chuckle.  
"What are you?-"

"Not here."  
He whispered, his voice close to Alistair's strangely pointed ear. "Come with me-"

Alistair scrunched his nose and hoped the elf couldn't feel the heat emanating off of the wardens cheeks and neck. "Oh-ok."

Zevran slipped his hand into Alistair's own.   
To guide him through the darkness, of course. Logically. Obviously. 

Zevran's nails scraped against his knuckles and his calloused hands almost melted into Alistair's own. Unconsciously, Alistair squeezed his hand and couldn't help feeling a lot smaller when Zevran huffed and shook his head exasperatingly.

Quickly, with help from the Antivan, the pair snuck outside without hitting anymore dog statues. 

It was absolutely freezing and immediately the warrior regretted not wearing any sort of foot covering.

Zevran shivered, but covered it up with a sly smile behind him, letting go of Alistair's large palm and sauntering into the market where there was more light. 

"Wait up!"  
Alistair stage-whispered, jogging hurriedly into the Denerim square much slower and much less graceful than what Zevran had. Alistair naturally ran like there was ten ton armour on his back- and Zevran was almost a feather- a shadow. Alistair half expected him to scale a building in a second flat or do cartwheels and a full gymnastically-inclined display.

"Maybe you should hurry then, lovely warden?"

The elf turned, wind swept his soft blonde locks up around his face and his deep golden eyes shone in retaliation to the torchlight. His grin hinted at a pair of sharp canines, and Alistair then realised he was watched Zevran's mouth. 

He looked breathtaking.

Alistair stopped, folding his arms and puffing out his chest in angst. He spied a nice bench outside the chantry and plonked himself down on it, blushing. 

Zevran had been calling him that- 'the lovely warden'- since the tower of magi. 

It started when they were in the midst of battle.

They'd been fighting of a horde of blood mages when Zevran had shouted for 'the lovely warden to help flank, and not just stand there', not looking directly at either warden so Alistair automatically assumed the elf was talking about their leader. 

But when Alistair saw how much the elf and the entitled noble began to dislike each other through their constant fighting in camp and their distasteful but thankfully vocal stabs at eachother, he then realised who Zevran had been talking to this entire time.

The battle at circle of magi was almost six months ago. 

Despite his efforts to train himself not to do so, even going as far to ask if Wynne could use a spell to stop it from happening, he couldn't help getting as flustered as he did every single time Zevran used his nickname.

Eventually the human returned back to the present, back to the unwelcome feeling of indecision in his gut, and back to a tan elf huffing his chest in exhaustion in front of him. "What? Did you run a marathon, Zev?"

"In actual fact, I scaled the guard towers and studied where they were situated very quickly, to make sure we could sneak back in with little disturbance. One of them is fast asleep. Like a small babe."

Alistair smiled warmly, now being able to see the pretty elf better; impossibly large eyes stared down at him, a defined nose. The warden's sight traced down the tattoos that followed his cheek and his eyes flicked to the Antivan's lips again for the tiniest moment. "And you couldn't just take the stairs like a normal person?"

Zevran placed a hand on his own hip, grinning right back. "Oh /please/ Alistair. When have you known me to take the mainstream path?"

"That's true... You /are/ pretty strange."

Zevran threw a dainty but lethal hand over his chest in melodramatic shock. It reminded him of Leliana when she thought of Ferelden footwear for too long. "Oh! I am singed! Pierced straight through my weary heart!"

Alistair openly laughed at the display and then began waiting anxiously for the conversation to die. Sensing much the same, Zevran reached into his impossibly fluffy coat, pulling out a large glass bottle. "It seems we both needed some liquid-comfort no?"

Alistair nodded, hoping Zevran saw in the dark.

He popped the cork of the Antivan brandy and suddenly the corners of Zevran's mouth twisted up as he looked through his lashes at Alsitair. The human had learned by now that that meant there was a flirtation following. "Although your company is comforting enough."

Alistair sighed with relief, but shuffled with giddiness all the same. It wasn't as bad as he assumed it was going to be. If anything it was endearing. 

Zevran took a large swig straight from the bottle, watching Alistair with intensity the entire time "The- the feeling is uh- mutual"

He then handed the Antivan brandy over to the warden. Of course the elf would choose that over something less delicate. 

Although, if Alistair was being completely honest, he would say he rather enjoyed, if not loved the alcohols from Antiva. Maybe he'd go there one day...

They chuckled together for a while, taking sips from the brandy before Zevran finally sat down next to the warden, shuffling close to catch Alistair's body heat.   
It wasn't an uncommon thing- all of them closing in together to keep warm, so Alistair thought nothing of it. 

In fact, he usually thought nothing of Zevran in general.   
Only recently had he been thinking of the elf in a more... Intimate way. And sure, the constant flirting is a drag but there are moments- ones much like these, where they're pressed up together, Alistair slowly humming that same silly lullaby from before, and Zevran actually relaxes next to him. 

Alistair was never sure about who he was interested in when it came to relationships. It's not like the Chantry openly condemns love that varies from anything but a man and a woman together, they just prefer it.  
And it wasn't like there was a large variety of genders to choose from when you grew up living in a boys dormitory and the only other alternative was the girl Templar recruits who were living on the other side of the gigantic base-of-operations, and Alistair wasn't gonna walk all the way over there only to be sent back again when he could easily make do with the entertainment right in front of him, the entertainment that wasn't one thousand miles away. Alistair knew that there were close range female bodies, but those were solely the Chantry sisters who were as old as Andraste herself. 

Alistair shivered in disgust and blamed it on the weather.

He just wanted someone who had a mutual inclination toward him as he did them. 

Zevran was probably not that person. He seemed to be more interested in casual flings, which wasn't bad, it just wasn't what Alistair was after from him. He was scared Zevran knew.

Of course the ex-Templar couldn't help the way he was feeling toward the elf unless he just ignored it long enough.   
That's what he did with the boys in the chantry, and continues to do it to this day apparently.

It was a difficult tactic to master.

But the most confusing and mystifying thing about the Antivan Crow was that when they're alone together... Zevran actually lowered his guard.   
Even leaned into the man like they'd been together for years. And that thought always brought a bright tint to the human's face. Alistair couldn't understand why he hasn't said anything to the elf yet. For fear of mockery? That Zevran would spit in his face and say he wasn't worthy of his attentions? 

Alistair knew Zevran would never, but his self-consciousness became overwhelming sometimes. Especially when it came to romantic endeavours.

Alistair wrung his nightshirt uncomfortably between his strangely sweaty hands and waited for one of them to find the courage to speak. Unsurprisingly it was the elf. "you have not been sleeping. Have you, lovely warden?"

Alistair chocked on his own words. Zevran had always been direct.

"I don't understand how Cousland can ignore it... The dreams- they are getting worse and worse. To the point where I'm avoiding sleep as aptly as I possibly can."

Zevran had a sympathetic look in his eyes, unsure on how to comfort his friend. 

Alistair changed the subject to ease the elven man's unnerve, but then regretting the words that came out of his mouth because they were probably just as much of an awkward topic as the former.  
"I saw you and Cousland fighting again."

Alistair thought about the events of that afternoon: their warden leader was almost exploding, his red face enflamed and Zevran was grinning with a icy glare in his eye as they stomped back to the castle today. Cousland hadn't stopped shouting even as he threw the doors of the Denerim castle open with the force of a hundred Brontos.

Zevran tensed in recollection, then sighed, tugging his braids out of his hair. "Yes. I do not 'appreciate' his disregard for the elven townsfolk in favour of power."  
He shook his hair out , then rested against Alistair's shoulder once more, neither of them looking at eachother. "I cannot take much more of his insolence, Alistair. I think- I think I may-"

"May what?"

Zevran whimpered a little. A noise that took Alistair by complete suprise. "You know Cousland is a very bad human being- don't you Alistair?"

The grey-warden knew. He didn't want to admit the man he'd been following for entire year was as ruthless and uncouth as he turned out to be, but the warden nodded his head again anyway.

Zevran turned, his eyes wide and wilder than the torches around them. More serious now than Alistair had ever seen them before. "You know he is going to hurt me- and you, for that matter. As soon as we become useless. He is the type of man I've had my fair share of becoming extremely aquatinted with. He craves manipulation over kindness, and if he can see a way to alter the situation so you're left with nothing and he is left with /everything/, he will do it." 

The elven rogue stood up in melancholy and worry. Alistair stayed sitting. Zevran turned around, his back to the warrior, breathing heavily. A great weight crippling his shoulders. "I wanted to ask you- oh this is just ridiculous."

"Zevran. What is it? Please. I hope you're not considering killing Cousland are you?"

Zevran let out a hearty laugh. "No- of course not. He isn't worth my precious time, or poisons. I- just- wanted to know if you wanted to leave Denerim. With- with me."

Zevran turned back around now, looking Alistair dead in the eyes, the elf's face composed. Alistair palmed the back of his own neck, and sighed sadly. The light in Zevran's eyes faded, but he didn't deflate. Was Zevran asking Alistair what he thought he was? No. The elf doesn't care for him like that... "Zev. I'm a grey warden- I can't just leave. It doesn't work like that. At least I don't think..."

Zevran's face didn't falter at his uncertainty.   
"I suppose that is true"

At ungodly hours of the morning, decisions like this- one his friend was presenting him with were so much more enticing.   
"I don't know what to say- I have to be at the landsmeet. For Duncan-"

"Yes- yes, of course Alistair. I will not steal that away from you. But I am unsure of what will come of me in the next few days."

Zevran's voice had a tinge of hurt that Alistair couldn't help but wince at. He didn't want Zevran to get hurt. But he couldn't just up and leave. 

Alistair hadn't even considered that they'd all be going their separate ways if or after they killed the Archdemon. He never really thought there would be the chance of life after Ostagar if he was being brutally honest.

At this point he couldn't imagine a life that wasn't spent in uncomfortable tents or traipsing through dirty taverns doing deeds for coin with his friends. 

"I just cannot witness Cousland ruin anymore lives, knowing I cannot do anything about it. His pride is too strong for him to back down if we engage in a fight."

"Zevran..."  
Alistair breathed again, much like the first time he'd seen him that night. This time Alistair reached for Zevran's wrist, feeling bold. "I think that-"

"We should be getting back to bed no? You look exhausted, my friend."

Alistair let go immediately, feeling the cold seep into his clothes as Zevran moved away. His elven eyes flickered with disappointment, and he began walking slow enough for Alistair to catch up, but didn't look back.   
Alistair left the bottle of brandy on the bench.

They walked back to their respective rooms in silence, Zevran turning to Alistair and looking up at him with glassy, emotion-filled eyes just once before disappearing behind his bedroom door.

Alistair sighed, wanting to punch something once again. 

He curled into the still sweat-drenched bed, the wine assisting his sleep but he still had a restless one filled with Archdemons and horrible fates.

\--

He woke to a bustling castle. Servants scuttling and tutting around past his closed door.

"Ser!"  
A knock at the door and a small voice accompanying it.  
"Ser Theirin! I apologise- b-but it is midday and you 'aven't left your room! Are you I'll?"

Alistair groaned as he slowly sat up. "Midday? No, I'm fine! Come in"  
A small human body in raggedy clothes stepped in slowly. Her dark features were chubby and she had the slightest tint of pink in her cheeks. It made her extreme array of freckles pop even more brightly. The tiny servant girl looked to be about 17 years old, but he couldn't be sure.   
She had the same wide-eyed expression Alistair had at that age, and that was only two years ago. The only possession she appeared to own was one thick-banded earring made out of onyx clammed desperately to her right earlobe.

He smiled warmly, still tucked comfortably under the covers. "Ser... 'Ave I done something wrong?"

"Something wro- no! Oh no. I just-"   
He smiled, sitting up further and pulling himself out of bed. His night-shirt fell down around his legs as if it was made for Sten. "What's your name?"

The girls eyes widened in shock and she turned, thinking he was talking to someone else. "A- Anastasia."

She replied with a small nod. Alistair smiled, watching her uneasy form. He was walking to a satchel full of his belongings when he tripped and stumbled, slamming quite hard into the opposite wall. "Owwwwww!"

Alistair groaned. Anastasia giggled loudly. Her laugh became slightly uncontrollable and then she snorted. Her eyes went wide as she looked at Alistair in shock. They both stood there for a beat, and then both burst out laughing once more.

"Anastasia hey?"  
She nodded. "What are you doing wearing clothes like those- waking snoring wardens up in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be in a schoolhouse or with your parents?"

The teen bit her lip, which wobbled. She didn't look like she was going to cry, but looked deeply troubled. "I don'- don't-"

"Woah! It's ok."   
He ran to her side. "It's ok! I don't know my parents either. I apologise for my unworthiness."

She shrugged. "Ser Theirin?"

She whispered. He replied softly "Alistair."

"Alistair... What if I knew someone's life was in danger, but telling them migh' get me in big trouble?"

Alistair's warm smile dropped. "Well- I would trust what my gut tells me. If you feel like you can prevent someone's death, and you want to help- I think that person would want to know wouldn't you?"

"I s'pose so."  
She sighed, fiddling with her fingers. "I may 'ave overheard Ser Cousland and Lady Morrigan last night... They said that Ser Arainai was a 'liar- a liability'. I think that means they are going to hurt him. He's so pretty! He said hello to me yesterday. Why would they hurt him?"

Alistair's lips pursed. Cousland knew Alistair possessed some sort of affection for the Antivan, and didn't even consider how this might affect him. Instead of commenting, Alistair stood and moved away from Anastasia. "Ser?"  
Her voice trembled. "'Ave I done the wrong thing?"

"No Ana. You did the best thing you could possibly do."  
He pulled what he was searching for out of his satchel. He handed it to the small girl. It's was a small wooden carved griffon that fit neatly into the girls clammy hand. "This is one of the most important things I own. I got this as a gift from the man who made me into a grey warden.   
"I want you to look after it for me alright? Every time you look at this... I want you to remember these words. Never forget them. Understand?"  
She nodded. "You are special Anastasia. You care for people. That is a gift. You are so strong for telling me this. I know you can do amazing things. If no one else does- I believe in you. And you need to believe in yourself. You decide what kind of life you lead. No one else."

"Thank you ser Theirin"  
She kissed his cheek.  
Maybe Alistair saw himself in the girl. Maybe he was projecting what he wished someone would tell him; as she scuttled away smiling and clutching the griffon, her messy clothes, naive and lost in the overwhelming world, dishevelled hair and no family to speak of- 

Or maybe Alistair could just smell the natural lyrium thrumming off of her skin. Something only a Mage possessed.

\--

After a soak in the bath and a change of clothes, Alistair snuck out of his room, peeking around every corner he turned. Hesitantly and cautiously creeping for fear of finding Cousland waiting for him, ready to sink a dagger into his back. 

"Alistair."

But no dagger came. Instead came the warden-nobles loud, mocking cough. 

"Yeeeeeeeeeees?"

He turned on his foot awkwardly. "What are you doing, Oaf?"

Alistair shifted uncomfortably, laughing nervously. He swayed, trying to force the sweat that threatened to fall from his forehead back into his pores.   
Cousland folded his arms angrily, his brow furrowing, and suddenly there was a fierce fire welling in Alistair's stomach.

"Nothing."  
He grinned- Thinking about punching Cousland in the face. "I just woke u-"

"Are you coming or not?"  
The dark haired warden sighed and palmed his forehead irritably. It took all of Alistair's power to force a smile. Alistair always had trouble reigning in his emotions. But he needed to right now, he needed to get to Zevran.

"Where are we headed?"

"I told you this yesterday. Do you not listen? We are going to the pearl. There's some people I have been payed to kill."

"Oh... Who else is coming?"

"Zevran and Morrigan."

"Really?"

Maybe Anastasia was wrong after-all. Or maybe Cousland was planning to kill the elf himself.

"Yes. Why are you so full of questions? Let's just go. Now."

\--


End file.
